


wishing for home

by Blahzor



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Era, Claudeleth Week (Fire Emblem), Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:28:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25503652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blahzor/pseuds/Blahzor
Summary: Claude celebrates his birthday with all of his favorite things: his friends, his professor, and a wish of his own.~day 6 of claudeleth week: birthdays
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	wishing for home

**Author's Note:**

> did i really just? write another story within 4 hours??
> 
> you bet i did, my boy Claude deserves something soft and sweet :') happy late birthday to our mans!!

Claude could only stare at the sight before him. 

A cake covered in frosting. Gifts of various colors, shapes, sizes. A quill and parchment. Perhaps he could figure out which item had belonged to whom, but then again, he'd also once assumed he wouldn't be leaving his dorm.

And he certainly hadn't expected Hilda to come and fetch him, dragging him by the heels to their classroom. But she _would_ go so far as to place her hands over his eyes, whispering things like _can you stop making such a fuss and just stay_ still!

It was after she released him that he'd noticed three things: _wow,_ that was a massive cake, they were _all_ standing in the classroom, and each of those smiles was definitely real.

So he released one too. “Is this a—”

“Happy birthday, Claude!” Lysithea burst out, unable to hold it in. He soon realized why: “There’s Almyran spices in the cake, so you better like it!”

“Hey, if it’s anything like you,” he said cheerfully, “I’m sure it’ll taste disgustingly sweet.”

Hilda came up to grab at his sleeve. “So, what are you waiting for?” she asked, a gleam in her eyes. “Are you going to unwrap the presents? Cut the cake? Make a celebratory speech about what _great_ friends you have?”

As he mulled it over, Claude found all three to feel...strange. Not uncomfortable, per se, only strange. He had dedicated all his past birthdays into training with a bow. It was simply the tradition of the household he’d molded into his nature. At best, Tiana would have brought him a souvenir from the trade stands. Over the years he’d slowly racked them up, a charm and a scarf and a tiny statue that looked like a monster from the swamps. And each year, around the same time, he’d hold them close and dream that they were little beacons, guiding him into the future.

To have anything more than that, to label his birthday as a special occasion felt...well, strange.

But if there was anything Claude excelled at, it was burying his thoughts beneath a wink and a cheer. He loudly cleared his throat.

“My friends!” he declared as if rallying for war. “We stand before the dawn of a momentous day! Gathered before me are the rich sacrifices of—”

“Shut up and eat,” as Lysithea shoved a plate into his hands.

The actual celebration had gone as Golden Deer celebrations tended to go. Raphael finished all the food first, which made Lysithea slap his hand. Good old Lorenz was reluctant with his gift-giving, yet give him a gift he did: a priceless ring, shiny and silver, more expensive than Claude could put in values to his life.

“I’m afraid it’s not worth much,” Lorenz said, slightly abashed, “but I do hope you appreciate Gloucester handiwork.”

And Claude decided to thank him by tossing an arm over his shoulder, much to Lorenz’s distaste. “If it’s coming from you, my good Lorenz,” he’d said, “how could I do anything else?”

Apparently there were three things to a good ornamental lance (which Claude wouldn’t have known, he’d never touched one in his life.) Leonie spoke of them in great detail: “sturdiness of the shaft”, “spearpoint legitimacy”, and the third too long to commit to memory. But that didn’t stop Claude from nodding and pushing out the occasional “ _Fascinating!”_ before accepting the gift.

The night was passing slowly. There went his third slice of cake. Lysithea was getting sleepy, he could tell by the way she blinked a _little_ too hard. Hilda was talking. Lorenz was ignoring her. Leonie had left to clean the training grounds. He walked over to Ignatz.

“So, how are things going in Ignatz’s world?” he asked.

“Oh, perfect!” He jumped to his feet, brushes and all. But Claude must’ve been too obvious with his intentions, for he immediately gave Claude a view of the back of his head, grabbing for his canvas. “S-Sorry!” he said. “It’s not finished yet! But I’m almost done, promise! Just a little more to go!”

Claude raised his hands. “Hey, no rush,” he said, as he attempted to determine which of the following was more surprising: the fact that he got caught or that Ignatz really _was_ painting him. Wasn’t that act of service reserved for monsters and goddesses? Which one was he?

“I’m sure it’ll look like the Goddess herself,” he said encouragingly. “Well, not because of me. That is, if you’re painting me. Even on my best day I'm barely half as radiant.”

“You say that,” said Hilda, popping into existence right under his shoulder, “but isn’t there a special someone who might say otherwise?”

Claude frowned. “ _Now_ you’re asking for my hand in marriage?”

“Give it a rest already,” she said. “There’s not a single person in here who _doesn’t_ know the truth.”

Probably, but he chose to say, “Know what, Miss Goneril?”

“Your feelings? His feelings? Both of your feelings?”

“Whose feelings, now?” as Leonie made her grand re-entrance.

Now that was being generous, Claude thought. A few cups of tea and some blows in the training grounds were hardly worth classifying as feelings. But if that was the case, then what was? A kiss on the cheek? A shared bed? A strange fascination between mutual parties?

He had the last one to his name, at least. Oh, and he _definitely_ had feelings, but Hilda didn’t need to know that. No point in giving her further ammunition.

“What I’m _feeling,”_ he said, “is that we need to make a few changes. Look around. Everyone’s either sleeping or thinking about sleeping. And as the birthday boy, I suggest two options: either we wrap things up and go to bed, or we run into the courtyard with all our clothes off.”

“Claude!” Lorenz cried.

“It seems that Lorenz wants to take his clothes off,” Claude said. “Anyone else?”

The votes ended up working perfectly in his favor. (The heck was going on in Raphael’s head?)

There were two things left for Claude to do. The first was tradition, established by him for their birthdays and encouraged by the rest. For each of their birthdays they were to write their greatest wish on a sheet of parchment. No one else could peek—that would ruin the secret. Then, in the following year, the lucky fortune-teller would retrieve it to confirm one of two things. Either their wish had come true—which was to be declared across the land for all Golden Deer to hear—or the process would continue.

“Can’t I get a _little_ peek?” Hilda begged.

“You can’t just ruin tradition!” Lysithea said.

Lorenz added, “All I’m saying, Claude, is that if you simply wish to pass on your title, you need only ask.”

But Claude didn’t answer, he was too busy scratching across the page. He was focused, he was curling his letters, and he lifted with a flourish. “There,” he said. “That’s it for this year.”

“Huh?” Hilda said. “That was... _much_ quicker than I expected!”

“Let me guess, Claude. You wanted more feasting, right?” Raphael said, holding up his plate. “Hey, what d’you know? That makes us both!”

“So,” Claude said before they could ruffle any further feathers, “second part of the night, right?”

“You bet!” Ignatz said cheerfully. “Marianne! Are you ready?”

She was standing in the doorway before she turned to face them. Her hands were clutched to her chest. Claude thought he saw a slight trembling in her shoulders.

“I...I believe so,” she said, nervous as could be. “I hope I don’t mess up.”

“You never have,” Claude said. “It’s always a pleasure, Marianne. And you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I won’t hold a grudge.”

And the nervousness was gone. “No,” she said, passionate to the source of Claude’s growing pride, “I _want_ to.”

That was all it took for the second tradition to return. Each time they shared a birthday together, Marianne did the opposite of what people expected. Claude loved seeing it, he was lucky to hear it, and honestly? It was worth the weight of a thousand paper wishes.

She began to sing.

* * *

Claude was following along with the moon before he climbed the stairs. The rest of the house had long since retreated to slumber. He knew, from both experience and Hilda’s slightly questionable word, that someone else was up there, as senseless as he was.

He had to approach quietly. The higher floors were privy to ghosts and figments of the past. And, if he wasn’t careful, he’d upset the worst of them all: Seteth, accompanied by one of his famous moods.

He gently pushed open a door. Tiptoed up the stairs. That was a huge spider web—Cyril would throw a fit.

_Watch your step, Riegan. Why don’t you try to surprise him?_

As soon as he arrived on the third floor he glanced down the hallway. No sounds. No stumbling feet, aside from his own. The more that he searched the more confidence he felt. Either everyone was asleep or they had all run off to the hills. Which, given the current company, he supposed he couldn’t blame them. Later hours brought out the crazier side of people.

Claude approached the aperture. While every other entrance had a defined door to its name, the star terrace could be seen from a mile away. He’d been there a few times. There was something strangely poetic about standing so high on Garreg Mach, fortress to the Goddess, right beside a monument that was dedicated to the things he searched for.

Or he was just crazy. But that would make two of them.

He was getting close to the monument. Next to it stood a head of recognizable hair, accompanied by a mercenary’s cape. Just as he thought. 

“It’s a full house tonight,” Claude said, “eh, Teach?”

* * *

  
  
The surprise hadn’t worked. Claude used his backup plan: “How long have you been up here, my friend?”

Byleth didn’t respond. Which Claude also knew was going to happen. He let out a sigh and placed his hands on his knees, watching his feet dangle over the edge. He could’ve stayed by the monument, sure, but a seat atop the wall felt much more comfortable, maybe even intimate.

And there was the fact that Byleth had decided to join him. He was staring up at the sky. If Claude didn’t know any better, he would assume he was searching for constellations. Garreg Mach’s configuration in the continent made it the perfect choice for stargazing. And Claude had seen his fair share, but not quite enough to tie a name to the many different figures.

But he knew Byleth well. That couldn’t be what he was doing. What he was searching for, what he wanted, was something out of Claude’s reach entirely.

Another try? “Do you plan on staying long?”

The statue spoke. “I’m sorry I couldn’t attend.”

Claude played dumb. “Was there something to attend? Did I miss it?”

Byleth smiled, ever-so-slightly. It said more words than Claude could fit into a dictionary. 

“I wish,” he began, “I could’ve seen you all celebrating.”

“Don’t worry, you didn’t miss out on much,” Claude said. “Hilda was poking the bear. Lorenz was the bear. Raphael wanted to eat the bear. Ignatz was painting a picture.”

“A picture?” he said.

“Ignatz calls it a picture. I call it a gorgeous display of shockingly good talent.” Claude ran his fingers over the stone. He picked up a pebble, rolled it between his fingers. “But he wouldn’t let me see it.”

“Why not?”

“Not sure. Never found out. I assumed it was for a present, but I shouldn't get too ahead of myself.”

He saw Byleth glance out of the corner of his eye. “Didn’t I teach you that?”

“You did,” he said. “First day of training. I tried to shoot a hummingbird—”

“And you nearly shot Lysithea.”

“Hey, she was being a brat! I’m not saying she _deserved_ it, but it definitely got her to shut up and focus.” He gave Byleth a wink. “Consider it a favor.”

“She nearly set you on fire.” Nothing could crack that smooth veneer.

“And you would’ve had a reason,” Claude began slyly, “to call off the training.”

“Why would’ve I done that?”

“You were exhausted. I could tell.” He flung the pebble over the side of the wall. Guess the forest would have another to add to its collection. “You wanted to call it a day, but you kept pushing ahead.”

Lo and behold, he was back to looking at the stars. Perhaps Teach could find a method to their madness. “How could you tell?” he said.

“When you get tired, your shoulders droop first,” Claude answered, as if he was rattling off a well-memorized list. “You immediately try to hide it, but then you get this surprised little look like you’re saying, _oh no! I just let my guard down!_ ”

“I...do that?”

“Yup, you’re doing it now!” Claude said, raising a hand to Byleth’s face. Nope, no more reaction. “Don’t worry, it’s not noticeable. I just happen to have a particularly keen eye.”

Byleth said nothing. Claude was sure that he was losing his subtlety, but who gave a damn, they were sitting on the third floor with no else around at the stroke of midnight. If there was ever a time to be obvious, it may as well be now.

“Say, Claude.”

“Say, Teach.”

“Where did you learn all these things?”

“Learn which things?” Claude said. “Smart things? Noble things? Embarrassing and scandalous things?”

With each quirk of Byleth’s lips, Claude could’ve sworn he felt the stars draw closer. “You act so selflessly,” he said.

“Huh.” Claude stroked his chin. “Don’t let Lorenz hear you say that, or he’ll throw a fit.”

“You're constantly aware of others,” Byleth continued. He was getting into that tone of voice that meant he was about to break the barrier. Either Teach spoke his mouth off or he barely spoke at all. “When you’re interacting with the house, you seem to lift them up. You play along and tease them in times of distress.”

“Well, I don’t know if it’s just in times of distress—”

“But you understand them. The tinier acts, the way you read their every movement. Even with me.” The smile was getting bigger. “You seem to know them as well as you know yourself.”

His last words struck a particularly sensitive chord. _Myself?_ Claude wondered, the wind rushing through his ears. He stared down into the darkness, and it felt like a twisted line of poetic justice: _Do I know myself?_

He was the prince of Almyra. He belonged to Leicester. He had dreams and wishes and ambitions floating around in that old noggin of his. But having a title, having something to drive you forward—was that enough to call yourself known? After all, didn’t Teach just mention it was in the little things? 

Goddess, he didn’t even celebrate his own birthday.

Teach must be a mind-reader: “How do you celebrate your birthdays?”

Claude answered almost immediately: “I usually don’t.”

“Why is that?”

Claude gave a shrug. “Not sure. I never got around to doing it, I suppose. Most of the time, my mother just gave me a gift and I shot arrows into the trees.”

“I see.”

“But it’s not as bad as it sounds! In fact, if you strike at _just_ the right point, you can knock down a bushel of acorns. And the squirrels, they go _nuts—_ pun intended—when you steal all their food.”

“Claude,” Byleth said to interrupt his flying train of storytelling, “what did you do today then?”

Claude let his mouth fall closed. He thought he could hear the monument speaking, whispering in his ear. Maybe it was the moon. Maybe it was his sense of direction, somehow getting more lost and found by the passing moment.

“Nothing too exciting,” he said.

“That’s not what Hilda told me,” Byleth said.

“Wait, she _told_ you?”

“You have a tradition?” Byleth asked, though his eyes betrayed that he already knew the answer. “Something to do with wishes and parchment?”

And Claude had run out of excuses to tell, so he chose to detail the process in usual Claude fashion: unnecessary specifics over generalities. Byleth had nodded as he’d listened, his face carefully blank. Claude could hurl his cape over his head and he’d likely get just as much out of it.

“And I wrote it, and Marianne sang,” Claude finished.

“Her singing is beautiful,” Byleth said, more fact than opinion. “I’ve heard it in the chapel.”

Claude could feel a smile returning. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard.”

“And what did you write, Claude?” Byleth asked.

“Well, now, I can’t tell you that,” Claude said. He could feel the wind stroking its fingers through his hair. The sky must’ve been particularly curious about them tonight. “Otherwise it won’t come true.”

Byleth seemed to take this seriously. He turned back ahead, eyebrows drawn, trying to stare a hole into the kneecaps of his armor. He always wore that armor, Claude thought. It spoke of his character. Closed, hardened, ready to jump in and protect.

He’d seen that armor for as long as he’d known him. What Claude wanted, what he hadn’t exactly wished for but he very may as well have, was to understand the softness underneath.

Perhaps he should attempt to do what Hilda had pushed him to do. It was his birthday, after all. When else would he get the chance to turn a wish into reality? 

“Teach?”

“Hm?”

“Mind if I rest my head on your shoulder?” He made a show of cracking his neck. “A whole night of partying has got. Me. Beat.”

And Byleth, for all of his strange social cues and etiquettes, seemed to understand immediately. The biggest smile yet. Claude thought he felt a force, stars or moon or otherwise, pulling him in.

“Certainly,” he said.

The first thing Claude noticed was _wow,_ was it tough. He could attribute that to the shoulder armor, but a sneaking little voice told him that Teach was simply built as such. After all, he'd swung a sword for most of his life.

Claude, to his benefit, was perfectly comfortable.

He turned his eyes up. They really _were_ a sight tonight. If he didn’t know any better, he would say they were brighter than usual. Was it their gift to him? He could carry around a thousand swamp-monster idols, but a sight like this was beyond songs and paintings, almost unreal. 

Then again, the stars couldn’t take all the blame for his heartbeat. Byleth was sitting right next to him.

He was talking again. “Claude?”

“Teach?”

“May I see your hand?”

Claude’s first thought was that this was some type of trick. He’d take his hand, he’d slap it back into his face, and he’d skip into the monastery while waggling his fingers in front of his nose.

Yup. He was definitely going insane.

He reached his palm up without saying a word. Byleth understood—he held him gently by the wrist. That was Byleth, Claude knew. Gentle when it came to the people he cared about. He just never thought he’d be lucky enough to feel it so close.

He felt something else. Softly tracing the lines of his skin. Forming letters in his palm.

Slowly, Claude felt his eyes growing wider. He knew those letters. He knew the word. Knew the name. He’d been forced to learn sign language and communication tactics all his life, his parents’ form of gifts to him when they’d been too far removed to teach him the meaning of _happy birthday._

_Khalid._

“I think,” Byleth mumbled softly, “I’ve written what I wish for.”

And Claude let his eyes fall closed. There was the whistling of the wind, the soft sound of Byleth breathing, mixed with his own. Amidst it all, Claude found one thought breaking through: he’d never felt more close to home. He was standing in Fódlan. His memories and heart were Almyran. But, somehow, he understood. The friends, the celebrations, the wishes that bonded the souls that reached, whether they were scratched over parchment or etched into skin. These were the parts that brought him home.

_Byleth._

**Author's Note:**

> come join me on twitter! :) 
> 
> <https://twitter.com/blahzor1>


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